“Three minutes interval between each man and go as fast as possible,” called out an officer, and off went everyone at a given signal. Rateau was just before me and, as it turned out, I was last. I felt like the prisoners in the Conciergerie during the reign of terror must have felt as they waited their turn to go out to the fatal tumbril. Through the opening in the sandbags only a bit of the narrow pathway was visible, as it turned sharply to the right and went down the face of the cliff beyond. It was like looking out on limitless space. “Well, goodbye and a pleasant journey,” said the officer to me when my turn came. Out I went, putting my hand over my left eye to avoid looking into the void, and I managed to run like this all the way down. It was getting late when we got back to Bormio, so we decided to remain another night, and were glad we did, as an amusing incident occurred during the evening. Whilst we were finishing dinner at the hotel, we received a note inviting us afterwards to smoke a cigar and take a glass of wine with the sergeants of the regiment quartered in the town. Of course we accepted and duly turned up. The reception—for such it was—took place in a large private room of the hotel we were staying in, and we were greeted with the utmost cordiality. There was a big display of a certain very famous brand of champagne on a side table, and the corks soon began to fly merrily; toasts were given as usual, and everything was pleasant. During a pause a sergeant next to me, who spoke French fluently, asked me how I liked the wine. In jocular vein I replied that it was excellent, but it was a pity it is German, as it is well known that the owner of the vineyards near Rheims is at present interned in France. To my surprise he took my words seriously; there was an icy moment as he communicated my remarks to his comrades, and then, as though with one accord, there was a crash of broken glass, and we had to finish up the evening for patriotic reasons on _Asti Spumante_. CHAPTER IX